Red,Green
by hobbitsdoitbetter
Summary: Sherlock Holmes doesn't know what to do with himself. He doesn't know what to do with his heart and the peculiar notions located therein. And yet, he just can't ignore them, not even for the sake of Molly Hooper. Sequel to "Where You End And Where I Begin," but can be read as a standalone. Hard T, rating will change.
1. Three Kisses

_Disclaimer: This fan-fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Beta-read by Katya Jade but all mistakes are mine. Sequel to "Where You End And Where I Begin," which you may want to read before this. Then again, I think it stands on its own. Enjoy. _

* * *

**THREE KISSES**

* * *

It starts with a cleared throat.

It starts with a moment's hesitation.

It starts with Sherlock's right hand brushing Molly's left, her lips an inch from his jaw, and the way her breath stutters makes him stop. Look at her. Brown eyes staring into blue ones.

She wets her lips. Swallows. She's nervous- but she doesn't back away from him.

"What are you doing, Sherlock?" she asks him and her voice doesn't sound weak or hesitant. It sounds… It sound like something he doesn't know how to deal with.

Something that is resolutely not meant for him.

The Woman's words about what was between them, and what might be between he and Molly, flash through Sherlock's mind and though he knows he really should do, he just can't bring himself to push this moment away.

Instead he moves closer, though if you pressed him he couldn't explain why.

All he knows is that here there are no maps, here there be dragons, and here he wishes to stand come Hell, Moriarty, Mycroft or waters skyscraper-high.

But he half-shakes his head at that thought, unwilling to dwell on it. The words dying on Molly's lips at his silence, that warm, candle-glow shine in her eyes very nearly sputtering out. A tiny frown puckers between her eyebrows and she goes to pull away, his resistance signalled (she thinks) and his decision made. _She will not impose upon him, Sherlock has always known this. It is not in her nature, though it is hard-wired into his. _But though he knows he should, he doesn't let her go. He can't. He… won't do. There's too much between them and too much he wants from her and if she pulls away then he's not sure what could be between them will ever come to pass.

It's a quick kiss, placed on her forehead, there at that tiny line between her brows. Her cheeks are warm between his hands where they bracket them. Her skin is very soft beneath his fingertips and her hair rustles where it scratches against his thumbs.

Molly blinks at him with those bright eyes and slowly they both smile. Nod.

They're new to this.

It's a beginning and an ending, and Sherlock honestly doesn't know which discomfits him more.

* * *

There are rules for Sherlock. Guidelines. There have to be.

Interaction with the general populace depends upon it, and if he hadn't figured them out as early as he did then he doubts he would have made it to adulthood in one piece.

_ Do not engage with people unless you are sure you will have the upper hand with them._

_ Do not forget that you are different from everyone else, and it is obvious, for that way a world of difficulty and pain lie. _

_ Do not seek for those things which are not your place, those things which are built around heart and hearth and loveliness, for they are a mystery to you and are destined to remain so_.

Sherlock used to call it the Gospel According To Mycroft, and before that it was the Gospel According To Father.

He's a little ashamed to admit that it's his Scripture as well, and has been for quite some time- _He needed no fall from St. Bart's roof to prove __**that **__to him. _

But though he knows that these are the rules (and they really are rather helpful, allowing him to navigate most social situations with as much ease as he is going to muster) Sherlock is also becoming aware of those rules' shortcomings.

They were starting to look threadbare and untrustworthy back when he first met John Watson.

And now that he's found Molly they look even more ragged yet.

Because he doesn't want to be in charge of Molly, not necessarily: She is quiet and gentle perhaps (meek, The Woman would call it). She is his bashful one, his Girl Without A Name. And yet those softer qualities are the very things he wishes to guard in her, not the things he wishes to rule. Sherlock is aware of how much of his behaviour is predicated on ego, how much on boredom, and how much on keeping the big, loud humans who surround him at arm's length- _He has no illusions about who and what he is._

But Molly is not big and loud. Molly is not aggressive. Molly is not a fortress to be taken, a battle to be both fought and won. And if she is daunting, it is more in how aware she makes him of his own shortcomings than in how many of her own she brings to the fore. _Her very sweetness should disgust him, but he knows that it does not._ Quietness, gentility, these are the marks of prey, he understands this. But they are also the very things he suspects a predator hates in its victim, and he can't help but feel that his discontent around them is some reflection of that. _Do we not always hate seeing in others the things we wish we could find in ourselves?_ But biology is not destiny, and neither is nurture. He could have become Jim Moriarty, he knows this, and yet he long ago made a decision to toil on the angels' side, however much he insists on making the mission his own.

And just as surely as he made that decision, he tells himself, he can make this one.

He can choose not to be a predator to Molly, to show the best that he can be to her.

_ And maybe some day she'll learn that for him she needn't be prey_.

So he brings her back something small from his brief mission in Tashkent. A scarf, gemstone-green, the colour one he's seen in the jewellery she never wears. The jewellery she feels draws too much attention to her. Her mother loved that colour, he knows from the pale imitation of it that still clings to the family's chairs, and he wonders whether this too is a manipulation, drawing on the memory of the woman she adored in order to attract some of that adoration for himself. The scarf is soft and light, silk, and he thinks that she likes it. Though he gives it to her gruffly- he has no soft words for this, at least none that wouldn't feel like lies to him- the smile which lights up her face tells him his brusqueness is not only forgiven but expected. Not a cause for doubt. This time she reaches up on her toes, brushes a kiss to his cheek. Her perfume smells of cherry-blossom and vanilla. It smells… It smells like a memory he can't quite recall.

It's only when he gets back to his room- alone- that he lets himself appreciate the way it clings to his skin.

* * *

The first time they kiss on the mouth, it's Molly that leads it.

Sherlock wonders whether she's disappointed about that, but he hasn't the heart to ask.

He's back from another search- _Mumbai, this time_- and by the time he gets to her he's black and blue and half dead from blood loss. He passes out on her sofa without even getting his coat off, and the rest of the night slithers by in a painkiller-induced blur.

Molly's not the squeamish type- a pathologist simply can't be- and though his injuries frighten her Sherlock appreciates that she doesn't hesitate. Instead she takes out her first aid kit and slowly, methodically, patches him up with it. Patiently stitching him back together. Soothing him. Caring for him. Cleaning him. Not making any comment about that fact that the knife-wound on his hand means he leaves bloody handprints all over the sleeves and collar of her favourite white shirt. As she works, the blurry, blue-edged light of dawn steals into her little living room. He hears snatches of London waking up, rousing itself, but he floats in and out of consciousness too much to be sure. He thinks that perhaps Mycroft comes to see him too- Molly's worried about his having a concussion. But that visitation, and the terse words he hears her share with his brother, may simply be a dream and nothing more.

It should all be very frightening, but with her here it is not.

_ It is such a strange thought for him that he's half-tempted to blame it on the drugs. _

By the time he wakes fully though, London is up and ready. It's mid-afternoon and Molly's sitting beside him, a book spread across her knees. When he opens his eyes and looks at her she reaches across and, without fanfare, presses a kiss against his mouth, her left hand flattened against his heart. It warms him. She warms him. He is surprised by how glad he is to have her near. She rests her forehead against his chest for a moment, and without his even bidding it his free hands find and wrap themselves around one of hers.

The bones feel very fragile.

"What was that for?" he mutters and she looks at him long and hard. Makes a show of shrugging.

Her expression isn't one that The Great Detective can read.

"Just didn't want you dying before I knew what that felt like," she murmurs, but the words are said to the pages of her book. Her cheeks are slightly reddened by them.

Sherlock opens his mouth to answer her, but he finds no word will come to him.

So he squeezes her hand between his own and together they watch the afternoon's brightness darken into night.


	2. Taken

_Disclaimer: _This fan-fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta-read so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to CloudCuckooLandHasAQueen, Rocking the Redhead, Mama Goose and my mystery guest for their review. And Mama Goose, the answers to your questions can be found in the notes at the end of this chapter.

* * *

**TAKEN**

* * *

He thinks about it sometimes, what The Woman told him.

About how affection changes things, even sex, and about how what he and Molly may do together would be different from what he did with her.

Sherlock wants to dismiss it, wants to tell himself that sentiment will not make any difference in what is, essentially, a mere act of copulation-

But then Molly's brown eyes pop into his head, setting his blood buzzing and his heart beating harder, and he can't shake the suspicion that Irene bloody Adler was absolutely bloody right.

Not that he would tell anyone, even if he had someone to talk to. John Watson might have prised such a confession out of him, but with his apparent death still news and his vendetta against Moriarty's organisation ongoing, talking to John is simply not an option. _And there is nobody else with whom he can share his fears_.

So he keeps them to himself, guards them as jealously as he once guarded his addictions. He supposes they have that in common, his addictions and his feelings for Molly, that they both make him happy and worried, that they both prove to him that he isn't like everyone else. Because aside from the fact that he's a higher-functioning sociopath and not in any way capable of normal relationships, Sherlock is also painfully aware that he doesn't have much physical experience with affection. He may be attractive to women (and if that's not enough to convince the population that females are born masochistic then he doesn't know what is) but he has no knowledge of what to do with that attraction. What to do with a woman, even one he knows he wants. _Even one he knows wants him_. His interaction with Irene Adler had worked precisely because he really took no part in it; Nothing but flesh and exertion had been contributed by him, he had remained resolutely outside the event for all his sweaty, hard-of-breathing bonhomie. And both he and Adler had known it, had accepted it as his due, as _their _due…

He sighs, looking over to where Molly is curled up asleep on her couch, Tobey wound around her ankles, and for the first time since he was a boy he wishes he were something else. Something different. Something… normal. Just in this one thing.

It's a strange thing for him to know what he wants but not know how to go about it.

Just as it's a strange thing to know that no amount of study, no amount of research or determination or graft, will make up for his basic lack of experience.

And experience is the one thing he can't get any more of, not without Molly. He may not be used to having a girlfriend, or wanting one, but even he doubts shagging around to improve his prowess will impress Molly. _No, he needs no John Watson present to tell him that that plan is more than A Bit Not Good. _But what else can he do? He can't ask anyone. He can't go to Mycroft and find out whether any of those nice, suitable girls he used to bring home to Mummy ever let him slip his hand up their skirts and get them off. He can't ask his brother whether they ever kissed him softly in the blue light of dawn after they'd stitched him up, whether they'd ever told him he could have them if he wants- If he needs- Because they know what it means, looking sad when you think nobody sees. _No, there is no way he can do __**that. **Mycroft__ would eat him alive. _He can't talk about what he feels for Molly, precisely because he can't talk about what he feels at all-

_ And that,_ he thinks uneasily, _is really the problem. _

_ That's where all the difficulties come from, in the end. _

Because he wants… He wants to do with Molly the things that John's porn and Mycroft's books and Mrs. Hudson's songs and all those dirty jokes told in the boys' bathrooms at uni _don't _describe. He wants to do the things he suspects he can only do with the person she is right now, with the person he knows he's become. _And it's driving him insane_. He's not supposed to have this wrenching around inside him. He's not supposed to want the things he finds himself imagining in the dead of night when all the world's asleep. His hands on her, her mouth on him. Moans, whispers, words of, of _affection _spilling out between them like raindrops across new glass. The press and weight of two bodies in motion, two objects trying desperately to exist in one space and time. He wants… Sweat. Heat. The messiness of brown eyes wide and hair spilling through his fingers. The creak of the bed and the hum of the traffic outside and the scrape of his tie as it's pulled over his head. Jesus Christ, he wants to be something- _anything_- other than a generic man with a generic woman in a generic bloody bedroom, having a generic bloody screw. He wants to be a _them_, a real them, and it's scaring the shit out of him.

But how can he tell her that when he can't even let himself really think about it?

And how can he bear to disappoint her, after all she's put up with from him?

He shakes his head to himself, nonplussed. Uncomfortable. Damn near furious with himself.

_ On some level, he really wishes he just wanted a bloody good shag. _

But then his eyes are drawn over to Molly again, sleeping peacefully, and he realises that he doesn't want that at all, not really. She frowns in her sleep, scrunching her nose, and she is perfect in that moment, perfect in the way a piece of art or artifice will never be. Perfect in a way you just simply can't plan. Sherlock reaches over and gently, oh so gently, strokes his thumb across the arch of her foot. She smiles in her sleep at him. He smiles back. Understanding descends like the brush of an angel's wing, and despite himself he unconsciously nods his head.

Because he may have been taken _with _Irene Adler, but he's been taken _by _Molly Hooper. He knows that neither Mycroft nor John nor anyone else will ever really understand that, or understand how much it means to him that he's gotten the chance of this.

So as far as Sherlock Holmes is concerned, everyone else can pretty much go to Hell- even his fears.

* * *

_A/N_ So, there you have it. Some more vignette-y type angst, hope you enjoyed.

As for Mama Goose's questions (sorry, I tried to PM you with this but couldn't). 1) Just because Sherlock didn't wear a coat _in_ Mumbai doesn't mean he didn't wear one to the airport and from it. Anyone familiar with London's rain levels and general temperatures can guess why. 2) While I don't go into it, (because it's not what _this_ story, at least, is about) getting on the flight from India would have been a lot better than staying behind and risking detection in Mumbai. Mycroft helped with the extraction, but he couldn't do much. Still got baby brother home though, and Sherlock's lesser-known superpower of stubborness got him as far as Molly. There now, hope that clears things up a bit. Hobbits away, hey!


	3. Boxing Clever

_Disclaimer: _This fan-fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta-read so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to Rocking the Redhead, Sunnysideup0815, MorbidbyDefault, Katya Jade (thanks for the quick beta, love) and Mama Goose. And again, Mama Goose, the answers to your questions are at the bottom. Enjoy.

* * *

**BOXING CLEVER**

* * *

She tightens her fist beneath the wraps.

Sherlock checks the placement of the fingers, presses to make sure her thumb's tight enough against the knuckles. Runs the bare heel of his hand across the wraps' soft surface, seeing if he can find a break in the cover, if he's left a weak-spot in her protection. He frowns as he does it, doesn't look her face, focussing on her hands. He hasn't been able to bring himself to let her do the wrapping yet, and he knows that it's starting to irritate her-

_ She thinks it a measure of his distrust in her, that he won__'__t let her do it herself. _

Sherlock lets her think it, would rather her be angry with him than give up this little…ritual that's formed between them. He finds it strangely comforting, when he sneaks home from whatever hellhole the hunt for Moriarty's crew has driven him to, to spend a couple of days practicing with her. Touching her, in a way that's protective and respectful and safe. Letting her dart and dance around him while he shows her new punches, new combinations. New ways to shield herself from the foes he's exposed her to. He never talks about it with anyone else, holds the knowledge of it to himself like a vein might its heartsblood-

_ And since it__'__s the only way he__'__s been able to make himself touch her since she last kissed him, it__'__s probably going to stay that way. _

_ He wonders, sometimes, what that says about him, but decides that for once he really doesn__'__t want to know. _

Because Sherlock knows it shouldn't be enjoyable, knows too that she needs to be trusted with targets more lethal than his flattened hands. _She__'__s better than she ever gives herself credit for, and he shouldn__'__t encourage her continued underestimation of herself. _But for some reason he puts the moment off over and over again, unable to imagine putting Molly in danger, even to protect her. Unable to let himself contemplate the moment when she will face his enemies on her own. He tells himself every day that he should send her to John to learn this, that his friend would be a far more effective teacher than he ever will be. That the doctor needs someone to draw him out of the shell Sherlock's death has locked him into, if only for a little while. But try as he might, the words always die in his throat before he can say them aloud. She is _his_ responsibility, and not even to John will he give her up.

_ She__…__ His Molly __**belongs **__with him. _

So he continues this touching-but-not-really-touching dance of theirs. Every day waiting for her to kiss him again, or for him to find the courage to try it for himself. Every night spent in the house, falling asleep staring at the wall on whose other side his lovely Molly rests. But nothing happens- physically at least- between them, nothing that doesn't involve training her. _And Sherlock is at a loss as to what this means. _Because… Does she want him? Does she _not_ want him? Is this all a test? And if she does, then what can he do? Ask her out? They can't leave the flat together. Snog her and see what happens? He hasn't yet the skill- or the confidence- for that. And even if he did ask Molly straight out for sex he's not certain she wouldn't be offended by his forwardness. He was brought up to believe that respect for a young woman was indicated by _not _trying to get into her knickers, and he suspects that Mary Siobhán Hooper, Daughter of Kilburn, only child of two very Catholic, _very _London Irish parents, was probably brought up to believe the same-

Which is not going to help with his current problems at all.

_ Even if he could work up the nerve to ask such a thing of her, which he cannot. _

He hears her give a huff of breath then, sees from the corner of his eye the way her shoulders tighten up. Her mouth straightening a little, its small, delicate line suitably perturbed. _Yes, _he thinks, _she__'__s definitely annoyed. _He knows her far too well by now not to recognise the signs- _Not that he__'__s going to let that stop him_. He's trying to improve her physical awareness, make sure she notices how her body reacts before that reaction can get her hurt. He tells himself that's why he drops her wrapped hands, moves his own to her shoulders. "Do try to unclench, Molly," he says curtly, pressing his thumbs into the flesh at her deltoids, pulling back with his fingers. She moves her head from side to side, working out any stiffness, and the edges of her ponytail flick across his knuckles. It feels very, very soft.

"And stand up straight," he adds in irritation. _He wonders what that hair would feel like, wrapped around his fingers. _"You've already got mild scoliosis-"

She crosses her arms over her chest, pivoting on the balls of her feet.

"Is that why you've been staring at my arse?" she asks, part playful, part irritated. "You were trying to work out whether I had a curvature to my spine?"

And she jabs lightly at his shoulder, not his upraised palms.

He stumbles backwards a step as she grins guilelessly at him.

"I do not stare at your arse," he snaps (with a great deal more vehemence than he intended). "I was trying to ascertain how best to train you, nothing more." He shoots her his most severe, dismissive look, purely from habit. "Your arse- like the rest of your womanly assets- is nothing special, _Ms. _Hooper. "

He regrets the words the moment he says them.

But he regrets the expression they bring to her face more.

"Oh," she murmurs.

It is a very small murmur.

"Oh, I… Sorry." And she turns her back on him, looking away.

Sherlock knows he shouldn't have said that. He suspects that she intended her statement as a little, joking comment and he took it as a verbal attack. Force of habit, that's what it is, fear turned sideways and cloaked in sharp words. It's been his modus operendi for years. But he can't let her- He doesn't- _He__'__s not used to thinking of her in such a way_. And even if he was, her reminding him of the fact that he's looking at her body- a body he can't bring himself to touch without the excuse of saving her or teaching her- is enough to rattle his cage.

But that's still no excuse, he knows that.

_ He just has the sinking feeling that Molly doesn't know that he knows. _

Because without a word she moves away from him then, head down, shoulders bent. Her "morgue pose," he calls it, because she only ever looks that defeated when she's dealing with him inside St. Bart's morgue. _Of all the things he had to say, _He thinks. _Everyone __**knows **__she's shy about her body. _And he doubts spending all that time with him chipping away at her self-esteem has helped. As he watches she walks quickly across the room, gets nearly as far as the door. She takes a small, raw breath, throat tightening, as she opens it, the light from the hall suddenly flooding her face. Sherlock sees whitened skin, a lip bitten with the effort of not saying anything. Fingernails digging into the palms of her hands so tightly just looking at it hurts. She's lost. Bewildered. In pain. He did that to her.

And suddenly he's not driven by worry, or irritation, or what he wants, _at all_.

Because suddenly all the things he's scared of, and all the frustration he's feeling, they don't seem to matter, not in the face of this. So what if he's scared? It could be worse. _He lashed out at her and now look at what he's caused. _He crosses the room, halts beside her. Takes her elbow, stalls her. He can't help but notice she won't look at him. She's worrying her lip still and staring at her feet, and for once Sherlock thinks he knows exactly how she feels. Because he feels it sometimes. Because he caused it and he hates that he did.

"Sorry about that," he says, quietly. Stiffly.

The words come surprisingly easily to him.

_ Just because he doesn't say them often doesn't mean that he won't speak them at all. _

For a moment Molly says nothing, simply continues staring at her toes. The silence stretches out between them both, smothering and electric and sharp.

And then-

"I know you're… I know you're nervous, Sherlock," she says softly.

She looks up at him.

"I know… I know a woman, even one you know as well as you know me, is not really your area. It's not something you've really done before- being in a relationship, that is." She takes a deep, steadying breath, still staring at him. The brown eyes are resolute, calm. "John is- John _was_ different. So is Mrs. Hudson. And I'm sure that Adler woman was different again. It's why I've left you alone, why I've let you set the pace once I saw how reacted to being kissed by me. I don't want to, to _push _you. I want you to know that your fe-That you're important. To me. In... this."

He feels his mouth drop slightly open at the words, surprise for once written across his features.

_ She knew_, he thinks, _she knew what his fears were and was still happy to pursue him. Still happy to try and create an __**us**__ with him. _

_It comes as, well, sort of a shock._

But she's still talking, and the words are getting faster. Her throat's tightening up and Sherlock feels a flare of panic at the notion she might cry.

"What I _won't_ do," she's saying, "what I won't ever put up with again- is you being cruel to me just because you're feeling frustrated. I know- I know soft words don't come easily to you. I know… I know you're sharp and hard, I like that about you. But basic civility should be doable, and if you can't even make that effort then we have a serious problem."

She looks at him. The silence seems to last for an age.

"So if you want to stay here… If you want anything with me, then you're going to have to start treating me better," she says eventually. She gaze is inscrutable. "And if you can't do that, then this goes no further than here."

And with that she moves into the hall. She looks very still and very distant, all of a sudden.

Sherlock watches her go, watches her pull herself together from her upset, and as he sees that Herculean effort, so small and so difficult for her, he realises that he has no words to say at all.

So, before he can stop himself, before he can let himself get worried, before he can stop trusting himself to do the right thing… He reaches forward and takes her face in his hands. Pulls her bodily to him. Her torso feels very warm and solid against his. It's a little rough and clumsy but she comes easily enough, her eyes finding him. For a moment he tries to say something but nothing comes, his tongue too thick and plodding in his mouth, the inarticulate cousin of his usual, quicksilver speech. But then… He plants a kiss on the top of her head. Then her cheek. Then her lips. Then her nose. Then her earlobe. He plants a little, nervous one on the curve of her jaw, his arms coming down and around her, as if of their own accord. She tucks herself in under his chin and he can feel her hair against his flesh, can feel her scratching the hair at the nape of his neck, twining it through her fist.

_It is, he has to allow, a truly wonderful feeling._

It's a long time before he knows what he can say to it though.

"I'm sorry, " he says again, more loudly this time. "I don't- I just know how to do this and I'm afr-I know I'm going to balls it up." His heart feels like it's going to kick its way out through his chest as he says that. He looks at her, tries to make light. "I have a reputation to keep up, after all," he says. "I'm better at being a higher functioning sociopath than being a boyfriend-"

She snorts. "There's not so much difference between the two, Sherlock." She… He can't explain it, she moves closer and suddenly it feels like she's… _moulded_ to him. It causes a jolt of warmth inside him, softer and heavier than sexual arousal, just as energetic but not nearly so sharp-edged.

"But learning that, like learning what to do with, with your, um, girlfriend, is half the fun," she's murmuring. "At least _I _think so. Do… Do you? Um, could you..?"

When he looks down at her, her eyes and warm and brown and slightly devilish.

He does not think he has ever seen _this _Molly Hooper before.

"I think I could," he answers with half-mocking solemnity. "I'd have to do some research into it, of course."

"Of course." Her smile is pure warmth. "So how about you teach me to box, and I teach you to… well, I teach you. How about that?" And she grins more widely, his Girl Without A Name, his bashful one, as if she hadn't just wantonly propositioned him. As if he weren't a nervous celibate and she weren't mousy little Molly Hooper, hiding from the world in the morgue. Taking a deep breath and screwing his courage to the sticking place, he reaches down and kisses her again. It's slightly less clumsy this time, and he feels a tiny prick of pride at the thought.

"I can do that," he says, as Molly takes his hand and tugs him playfully back into the living room. "_I_ can do that. If _you_ can, that is."

And he sneaks another kiss to her cheek before she fully scrambles away from him. Pulling him down with her onto the sofa and starting his… education anew.

Her taped hands are soon freed and tangling with his more clumsy ones.

He discovers her fingers are very, very clever.

It is a beginning, a good beginning, and Sherlock finds that more hopeful than anything else-

Even if he suspects he's going to spend a lot of time asking her what to do.

* * *

A/N There now, hope you enjoyed that.

As for your comment, Mama Goose:

1) On the coat thing, I think we're just going to have to agree to disagree. The notion that you would waste time stashing a garment which you need to wear to and from the airport, which you can easily put in your bag, which would be helpful in concealing both weapons and injuries, and which you may end up wearing after all, is baffling to me. I spent a lot of my twenties doing long haul flights to hot places and the coat always went in me bag. Sometimes I was even glad to have had it, so to me, objecting to its presence makes no sense.

2)As for whether an injured Sherlock would get through customs in a modern airport like Heathrow, he wouldn't. But as I said, Mycroft had him _extracted_. That means he did not leave on a commercial flight, and he certainly didn't have to go through customs. Having a big brother in black ops is handy like that ;-)

There now, hope that clarifies. As I said, we may have to agree to disagree. But thank you for the review and have a lovely weekend. Hobbits away, hey!


End file.
